


You are the blood in my veins (call me a safe bet, I'm betting I'm not)

by juxtapose



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, Drunkenness, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-23
Updated: 2012-02-23
Packaged: 2017-10-31 14:59:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/345450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juxtapose/pseuds/juxtapose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is what Sherlock does when he is completely alone. He lets himself be tired. He lets himself <i>be</i>, when he’s too worn out to do much else even if he wanted to. He’s bored, and he’s tired, and everything is too quiet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You are the blood in my veins (call me a safe bet, I'm betting I'm not)

**Author's Note:**

> This just came to me and has probably been done before, but. I hope you enjoy nonetheless! Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Sleep always comes to Sherlock in waves and bouts. It creeps up on him like a shadow, prodding at the edges of his mind when he least expects or wants it to.

For all his lazy mornings lounging about the flat (that sometimes turn into lazy days if he hasn’t a case), Sherlock hates sleep. It’s a waste of time, really. Time that could be used for alert, focused thinking, for making sense of the painfully obvious yet overwhelmingly mad world.

Sherlock hates sleep, but it’s coming for him as he lay sprawled on the couch at 221B Baker Street, and after fighting it for days on end the detective’s body is finally beginning to betray him.

His eyes flutter closed. He listens to all the _happening_ around him, all the _existing_. The clock on the mantelpiece ticks rhythmically. The refrigerator in the kitchen hums. Sherlock lies still enough that he can almost feel his own blood buzzing through his veins, his heart pumping loudly in his own ears.

This is what Sherlock does when he is completely alone. He lets himself be tired. He lets himself _be_ , when he’s too worn out to do much else even if he wanted to. He’s bored, and he’s tired, and everything is too quiet.

He thinks idly that if this were a few years ago, he’d have long plunged a needle into his arm by now, the sensation making his eyes roll back and his tongue flick to and fro, and transforming his insides into stimulant-filled sponges.

He doesn’t need any of that anymore.

In a half daze, a voice in his head asks, _But why don’t I need that anymore?_

As if on cue, Sherlock finds his answer with the clanging of a door swinging shut, as slightly fumbling steps on the stairway echo through the whole flat. A little, low chuckle, and a small thump against the doorframe. _John._

Sherlock doesn’t open his eyes. His thoughts bite at him, keeping him conscious, keeping him here, with their little deductions: _It’s been approximately two hours since John’s departure. Judging by the stumble in his step and the fact that he’s leaning against the doorframe for support, he has been drinking. Went to the pub. Assumed as much when he stormed out of here earlier._

John lets out a low sigh, and the loud clatter on the kitchen table indicates he’s thrown his keys there.

Sherlock listens. He listens, and he hears. He hears how John is scratching the back of his head, how his sharp intake of breath signifies that he’s yawning, and how the shuffle of his feet comes closer and closer and—-  
John is sitting on the edge of the couch. Sherlock feels instantly warmer-- _body heat. Obviously_ \--but keeps his eyes closed.

“You awake?” John says. _Slight slur in his speech, but seems coherent enough. Blood alcohol level is not nearly as high as it’s been in the past. Estimation: .08._

John sniffs. “Yeah, well. I’m back.” _Stating the obvious. Oh, John._ “Y’know what I noticed, Sherlock? I always do come back. And do you know why?”

Sherlock keeps still. He’s very good at it. When he was a child he always liked fooling the other schoolboys playing dead. (They never appreciated the talent as much as he did.)

“I always come back because I . . . I need this. I need . . . I can’t remember not being. This. With you. When I think about it, I just remember . . . being empty. Like. An empty glass.”

A part of Sherlock wants to let his eyes pop open so he can tell John to put a halt to his awful drunken metaphors before they really begin. But for some reason there is a stronger tug within him to keep quiet. So he does.

“I was an empty glass, and then you showed up with your scarf and your cheekbones and your _deductions_ and then I was all. Full. Full, and happy about it.” _Really, John? I don’t understand the fascination with cheekbones--_

There is the sudden sensation of a rush. An inexplicable, overwhelming feeling, the kind Sherlock only remembers his trustworthy Cocaine being able to provide, and it even takes the great Sherlock Holmes a few seconds to realize that this is a different kind of high entirely—John is running a hand lightly through Sherlock’s hair, his fingers whispering words Sherlock’s never heard before, in a language of their own. And it is a rush.

“You’re fantastical. Something out of storybooks. D’you know that, Sherlock? I know you act like you don’t care about stuff. Sometimes it’s hard to believe you care about anything at all, especially after tonight. I was so close, Sherlock. I was so close to just packing my things and leaving. Because you’re this great big bloody enigma, this mass of energy, and sometimes it’s too much. You’re too much.”

All the busy thoughts in Sherlock’s mind swim round and round, telling him to analyze all this, attribute it to John’s borderline-disgustingly human feelings, but only one thought prevails: _John almost left for good tonight._

“You were _bored_ , and I know how you get when you’re _bored_ , but, Christ, Sherlock, you’d think after living around _ordinary humans_ for so bloody long, you’d understand when your words cross a line.” A sigh. _Not angry. Exasperated. Disappointed?_ Sherlock tries to remember his apparently harsh words, tries to wrap his consciousness around the row they’d had earlier which sent John marching down the stairs and out the door within what seemed like milliseconds.

He can’t remember. Why can’t he remember? Had he deleted it? 

Sherlock had not deleted the utterly dejected expression on John’s face before he’d walked out. Maybe this, he thinks, is the important bit.

John’s fingers continue to navigate their way through Sherlock’s curls. “When you shut down—-when you don’t let me just _be your friend_ , Sherlock, it frustrates me. ‘Cause you’re the one with the sodding brilliant mind, and this . . ..” Another sigh. This is one of sadness, Sherlock recognizes. “This is all I have to give. So. Just take it and stop being a git about it.”

Sherlock’s mind is buzzing, jumping, spinning, but with a mere one word instead of millions: _John_.

“You don’t realize it, do you?” John is whispering now. “How absolutely mad you make me. But I won’t leave. I can’t leave. You would never admit it, but you’re wrong about one thing, Sherlock. You’re wrong about all your not-caring. ‘Cause I saw your face when I left tonight. You were afraid, Sherlock. You were afraid to be alone. Everyone gets afraid, you know. You _are_ human, Sherlock.”

_Wrong. Wrong, John. Wrong wrong wrong wrong--_

“I was afraid of being alone, too, y’know. And then we met. Neither of us has to be alone. Not anymore.”

_…Not wrong._

“So I’m sticking around, you insufferable lunatic. And I hope to God Lestrade stumbles upon a case worth your time very, very soon, ‘cause you’re a real _ray of sunshine_ right now . . . ”

John trails off, but the rumble of his voice is an echo in Sherlock’s mind, one that lingers on and on.

Yes. This is the reason Sherlock is still here. This is the reason he’s never bored or tired or crawling around in his own skin long enough to make another appointment with his Most Loyal Companion the Syringe.

All because of John. 

Something in him, buried deep but digging out onto the surface just a bit, wants to tell John this. Something in him says, _I am sorry, John. I don’t know how to do this, be this. Show me. Show me how. Every day you show me something new, and you don’t even see. You’re so oblivious, John. You’re oblivious, ridiculous, and human, and don’t ever leave._

Sherlock opens his eyes.

John peers down at him, face tinted alcohol-pink just a bit, eyes shining a little more than usual, but he’s John. Always John. Always here. Constant and glowing. He doesn’t appear to notice Sherlock has been listening this whole time, but realizes a few seconds too late that his fingers are still entangled in Sherlock’s hair.

Sherlock tries to hide bemusement as John clears his throat awkwardly, skin tone changing from pink to a bright red as he begins to move his hand away.

In spite of himself, Sherlock catches it quickly, the touch of John’s hand feeling something like the sensation of flitting your fingers through the flame of a burning candle. Sparks of warmth.

“You’re back,” and now Sherlock’s the one stating the obvious, “That’s . . . that’s good.” He darts his eyes toward the side of the couch, and repeats, “Good.”

John smiles a little. “Yeah. I think so, too.”

And maybe their fingers sort of lace together then, and maybe John’s eyes never leave Sherlock’s face for even a second.

And maybe Sherlock falls asleep for the first time in ages with a lingering something like contentedness, thinking idly (even peacefully) of warmth and flickering candles that never die out.


End file.
